Here's the beginning af a story I've been working on the past couple of months - it's part fact, and part fiction - you decide which is which...
THE MAN IN BLACK
I was riding my motorcycle on a little country road, literally in the middle of nowhere. I came up to a sharp right curve that I'd taken at least fifty times before, and knew that if I leaned the bike just so, that although the sign said 15 MPH, I could do it on my bike at 30 or so. I down shifted a gear, and slowed to 35, setting up for the curve ahead. As I tapped my foot brake to slow a little more, I noticed that the back tire of the bike skidded to the left. “Hmmm,” I thought to myself, “that's not right.” Looking at the road surface, I noticed that the county had just come along and laid pea-gravel on the approach and through the curve, probably that morning. This was not good news for me! I knew that I wouldn't be able to make the curve at the speed I was traveling. Looking up, I noted a break in the bushes straight ahead, in the middle of the curve, and a 3 strand barbed-wire fence blocking my path into the pasture beyond. Years earlier, one of my friends had been beheaded on a barbed-wire fence when his bike had left the road and he'd fallen off onto the fence neck first. I certainly wasn't going to risk tangling with this one if I could help it. I decided that the correct course of action would to be to hold the bike straight, trying to slow it as much as possible, and to do a PLF (Parachute Landing Fall) when I crossed the verge of the road. The Army teaches you to PLF in Jump School, basically the idea is that you land with your knees bent, pitch forward onto your shoulder while ducking your head and take a roll (or three.) This will theoretically help you convert your downward momentum into forward momentum and help you survive a fall. Being a former member of a Light Infantry Division, and Jump Certified, it was second nature to me.
There was just one thing I hadn't taken into account as my plan unfolded almost flawlessly, the telephone pole obstructing my path, unfortunately, at mid-roll. I don't remember hitting the pole, I barely remember thinking it was time to come off the bike, and letting it go. I came off the right side, dragging my feet, and tucking my right shoulder, I remember my feet dragging and my shoulder impacting the ground, just at the edge of the gravel, then...
I was standing there on the side of a small country road, dressed in my faded blue jeans, green Hawaiian shirt and motorcycle jacket. Strangely enough I noticed that I was in my socks. I scratched my head looking around me wondering, “Where are my boots?” Then I noticed a woman, with beautiful long black hair, she was about my age I'd guess, 35 and was about 5'5” tall and wearing a gray skirt-suit, with a bone white blouse and one of those jackets that flair and end right above the woman's hips. Plain black “sensible” shoes completed the outfit. She looked at me and - I fell in love with her crystalline blue eyes, - “I'll have to call my boss about this one,” she said. Her voice was a bit grating, like she'd smoked a lot of cigarettes in her time, and most of them inhaled so deeply and fast that they'd scarred her vocal chords but otherwise this was a beautiful woman. “Excuse me?” I asked. “That,” she said, pointing to the telephone pole about 15 feet off the side of the road. “That was not supposed to happen. It was an unscheduled event, and I need to see what the boss wants me to do about it.”
Looking where she pointed, I saw a man wrapped backwards around a telephone pole, his head laying between his legs just below the knees, his left arm thrown out and his right arm tucked. He didn't have on any shoes, just a pair of white crew socks. Then I saw his boots , thrown off his feet, apparently by the impact, one laying, and the other standing upright about 20 feet down the roadside, along with his helmet which was, incongruously, laying between the boots. I noticed that the strap on the helmet was still buckled. I thought, “That guy must have taken one hell of a hit.” Then looking the other way, about 25 feet to the left of the man, I saw what looked to me like an older-model Harley Davidson Road-King, just like mine, lying on its left side in the bushes against a barbed-wire fence.
I looked back at the guy on the phone-pole, deducing that he must have had a motorcycle wreck. It's funny, but even though I'd been trained to react instinctively to render first-aid/CPR on sight of any critical situation, I felt no urgency or need to respond in this case. I almost felt like I was dreaming, a little disjointed, you know? Like that feeling you have when you don't feel connected, where you can interact and everything just fine, but somehow nothing quite feels real. I don't know that you've ever experienced that, I'm assuming you have. It's happened to me rarely, and for only a few moments before, but it has happened.
I decided to take a closer look so I stepped forward a bit, my boot scraping the newly-laid pea-gravel. Boot? Wait a second, I was sure that only a moment ago I was wearing just my socks on my feet and wondering why... Oh well, I must have been mistaken.
Getting closer to the body, I noticed that there was no blood to be seen. I'd seen my share of violent death, and it's surprising how often there is little or no blood to be seen, and in this case, the guy had to be dead, didn't he? Wrapped around that pole, not moving. No sign of breathing even. Well, it's no wonder I thought, his lungs are probably crushed, and judging by the way he's wrapped, it's a good thing he died, because otherwise, more than likely he'd be paralyzed. His back has got to be broken. Hopefully, he went fast, I thought to myself. Then I noticed his shirt, a green Hawaiian one with the same pattern as mine, and faded comfortable jeans, and even the same type of motorcycle jacket, not that any of the clothes were uncommon, I am a firm believer in thrift-shops, and apparently so was this guy.
I began laughing at the incongruity of it all and turned back to the woman, still standing in the road, “You know, he and I are dressed alike? We could be twins!” She looked at me, squinting, and said, “Look closer.” I said, “At what? The guy is pretty obviously dead. Did you call this in yet? We should report it.” She shook her head and said, “Look at his face, look closer.” Feeling compelled, and not knowing why, I turned and bent for a better look at the guy's face.
His nose was bent to the side a little, I knew from a bar-fight where a guy had hit him full on with a half-full bottle of beer, and there was a scar through his eyebrow from where he'd learned to use a scope in Sniper School. There was so much I knew about him, it was uncanny. I knew that if he opened his eyes, they'd be light blue, almost gray, and that they did turn gray when he was angry, I knew that when he furrowed his brow, he looked like a hunting eagle, or had been told as much over and over for years. I knew that he'd been all over the world, done despicable things, and heroic things all in the name of his country. I knew that he'd loved, but never been able to give himself fully to any emotion, so no longer had a wife, and no close friends.
I knew.... I knew intimate details of this man's life, things that no-one else would ever know about him, and things that he'd never understood about himself. I knew this man inside and out. I knew that if I removed his jacket, I'd find tattoos and scars, and if I removed his shirt, I'd find more. I knew what the tattoos were, where they were and what they had symbolized, I knew each and every scar, where they had come from and how they were earned. I knew, because he was me.
Shocked, but still feeling a bit insulated, I straightened back up, and turning, returned to the woman in the road. “My boss said he'd be here in a few minutes,” she said, putting her cell phone back in her jacket pocket. “He said he thought he should handle you personally.” Nodding, I asked, “So we just wait?” She replied, “Yes, but it won't be long.”
Just about then I heard a car coming from around the curve, and we both instinctively stepped to the side of the road away from the wreck. An old brown chevy ¾ ton Silverado hove into view a few seconds later, going slow, with an old man driving and 3 men in their early 20's it looked like riding, one in the passenger seat, and the other two sharing the bed of the truck. The old man stopped the truck on the road, turned on his flashers and told the man in the passenger seat, “Jr., ya'll better get out and go see to that man over there. See if you can help him any.” The man beside him said, “Ok Dad, but it looks to me like he's beyond our help.” Jr. dismounted the truck and headed toward my body, he told the other 2 to get out and be ready to help. As he bent over the body the other 2 men got out of the truck and stood near the tail-gate, clearly not anxious to go over and see what had happened. “There's no pulse, Dad,” said Jr. “I figured as much,” replied Dad. “That's a pretty treacherous curve. Better use that cell-phone of yours and call it in to the Sheriff then. We'll sit here and block traffic till they come along.”As he was dialing, Jr. told the other 2, “Boys, I want you to go back around the curve a little ways and try to block traffic, at least slow them down for us if you can. Thank God this is a back-road.”
I asked the woman, “Why haven't they noticed us?” Although I suspected what her answer was going to be, I still had to ask. As expected, she answered, “because to them, we're spirits. They don't see us.”
Great, I thought to myself, I'm a ghost.
Just as Jr. was getting off the phone, a man suddenly appeared, standing there with us. He was a little taller than me, maybe 6'2, medium length blonde hair combed straight back off a high forehead, light brown eyes, a strong nose and a bow of a mouth. Like the woman, he was dressed in a 'somber' business suit – Grey coat and trousers, a bone white shirt and black tie. I looked at him and said, “This must be your boss.” She replied, “Very astute Mr. Macomber, allow me to introduce you to Mr. Mortis, my boss.” Holding out my hand, I said, “You can call me Joe, everyone does.” Smiling, he took my hand and said, “Thank you, Joe. Yolande, that will be all.” I turned to say goodbye to the woman, but she was already gone. Mr. Mortis said, “Have you seen enough here, Joe? I find it easier to talk in more civilized surroundings, and we have a lot to discuss.” “Mr. Mortis? I don't know if 'spirits' can eat and drink, but I sure could use a cup of coffee about now.” He flashed a grin at me and said, “Me too, follow.” And with that, he disappeared. Non-plussed, I thought, 'This must be a test.' I stood there for a moment, and thought about it, then concentrated on Mr. Mortis and with a sudden shift, almost like making an abrupt turn, there he was right in front of me again, except that now we were standing in one of those old-fashioned 'Mom and Pop' style diners. Taking his coat off, Mr. Mortis sat down at a nearby table and gesturing, said, “Please join me, Joe.” I took my coat off and sat down across from him.
As we were settling, a waitress brought us both a cup of coffee, mine black with a glass of water, and his with cream and sugar. She said, “I'll be back in a minute with a piece of peanut-butter pie for you sir.” I nodded, dumbfounded. Then she said, “I've found that comfort food always helps the newly arrived, isn't peanut butter pie your favorite sir?” I nodded my head yes, still dumbfounded, while she said, “I thought so,” nodded to me with a smile and headed back to the counter.
Mr. Mortis said, “Joe, there's a lot that you'll learn about in the next few days, try to just take it all in stride. Frankly, I'm impressed that you found it so easy to follow me. Most people don't the first time. That's a good sign.” I said, “Thank you sir. I can't help but comment on your name. Do you realize that it's Latin for 'Death?'” Mr. Mortis shook his head, took a sip of his coffee, set it back down carefully and said, “Ah, Joe. Straight to business, eh? Well, I'd been informed that you were a no-nonsense type of man, and this bears that out. So, here's a little background and then on to our problem. By the way, you can smoke here if you like.” I said, “I gave up smoking a few months ago because I was having some breathing problems.” He grinned and said, “Not anymore, and you never will have those problems again.” I noticed a full pack of cigarettes in my pocket, along with my favorite old lighter, and an ashtray on the table. “I want you as comfortable as you can be Joe, for our conversation.”
Sitting back in his chair, Mr. Mortis said, “OK Joe, yes I am 'Death.' That's my name, and my title, and my function, my 'Raisson De' Etre if you will. I am not a human being, however I assume this guise to make it easier for interaction with you who are Human. In your experience, I am an Angel, a (Whatever the top angels are) to be exact. I have a large job to do, to harvest souls from life when it's their due time... Well, actually, that's not entirely correct, my job is to just be... As long as I exist, there is an orderly nature to life, all things are born, they grow – age – and die, all in their time. All things make a transition form living physically, to just living. You no longer have a body Joe, a physical “This is me” body. You are a spirit, the “Living Breath of God,” as are all around you. Living people are still attached to their bodies, and can't see or interact with those who have 'gone on.' ©FCPierce 01/09
To be continued?.....
